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By This Poet

The heart on the breast of my mother
Saint, sleeping on the wing
of any number of blackbirds
their feet sticking out the end
of red pies.
Danger is my jester,
is the only thing keeping me here.
He holds nothing to himself.
In public he goes public.
There is a man who takes
blue silt to his brow
and kisses pollen.
No one notices.
They call him their leader.
Between breast in the morning
and open arms at night
Clouds of hair:
Gin guard has toes splayed to
receive me to receive me.
Songs and clouds and
pots banged. It's natural,
it's considered natural here.